


Somewhere Only We Know

by Turning_Page



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Domestic, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Domestic Fluff, Established Relationship, F/F, F/M, Family Feels, Fluff, Lesbians, Pregnancy, Romance
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-03-08
Updated: 2016-03-08
Packaged: 2018-05-25 11:01:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,726
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6192451
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Turning_Page/pseuds/Turning_Page
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"There are five positive pregnancy tests, all lined up in a row on the bathroom counter."</p><p>Or, the one where Clarke and Lexa are expecting. Because we could all use some fluff.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Somewhere Only We Know

**Author's Note:**

> I think we all need some good ol' Clexa fluff after the hell we've been through since Thursday night. 
> 
> This'll be in little snippets - flashes of what they're going through during and after the pregnancy. Eventually, the chapters will become longer, I promise.
> 
> For the Skype Squad, who came up with so many of the headcanons necessary for me to write this (and sparked the idea to make this fic in the first place!). Also for anyone else who I talked to about this! I love each and every one of y'all.

There are five positive pregnancy tests, all lined up in a row on the bathroom counter.

It isn’t as if she doesn’t have a reason to take a test or five – it’s been five weeks since they finally went through with the sperm donation, and her period is a week late.

Clarke’s breath catches in her throat. She’s alone at the moment; Lexa won’t be home for another twenty minutes.

She feels as if she could cry from either elation or anxiety.

There’s one question that’s still lingering, however: when the hell do you tell your wife you’re successfully knocked up?

There isn’t a question of whether she’ll tell; of course she will. There’s no doubt in Clarke’s head about that, especially since Lexa was the one who brought up raising a child in the first place (though the thought had always lingered for Clarke).

But, somehow, little nuggets of fear are beginning to latch themselves onto her brain. What if they’re, by some weird coincidence, all false positives? What if this is one of those pregnancies where she miscarries in the next few weeks? What if –

“Clarke?”

She looks up; Lexa is leaning against the doorframe, her arms folded above her chest and her eyebrows raised. Shit. She must’ve not heard Lexa come in through the door – or walk into the bedroom, for that matter.

“It’s been five weeks,” Lexa says, her gaze at the pregnancy tests.

Clarke’s voice is surprisingly dry. “I know.”

“Are any of them positive?”

“They all are.”

“Is something wrong?” Lexa asks, taking several steps forward so that she stands behind Clarke. In the mirror, she can see Lexa’s hands move to her waist, pressing her lips up against the crook between her neck and shoulder. Lexa’s hands are still cold, and her lips are chilly and chapped; it’s barely thirty degrees outside, and there’s a snowstorm that’s threatening to show itself any day now.

Her eyelids shut as she feels Lexa’s hands roaming up and down. “I just can’t believe this is happening, that’s all.”

“Is that a good or a bad thing?”

“Yes.”

Lexa chuckles quietly against the shell of Clarke’s ear, making the latter smile just a teeny bit. “Don’t be worried,” she says softly, “Everything’s going to be fine.”

“Can’t help but be; you know how I am.” Clarke mumbles back.

Slowly, Lexa’s hands go from her hips to the center of her stomach “I promise. Whatever happens, you and the…the baby, you’ll both be fine.” Lexa’s tongue seems to trip over the phrase ‘the baby’, as if she’s speaking a foreign language. Then again, Clarke probably would too, if she was the one speaking.

“False positive tests. Deformities. Miscarriages.” Clarke says, her voice oddly calm as she speaks, as if she’s reading from a textbook.

“Five false positive tests would be quite the coincidence. The chance of deformities are one in a billion; same with a miscarriage.” Lexa’s reply is swift, as if she already knew what her wife was thinking (sometimes Clarke wonders if they have some sort of connection like that, at least on Lexa’s end).

“They still happen.”

Clarke can feel Lexa’s lips forming into a smile against her skin. “Quit your worrying, honey. We’ll be fine. I swear. I can feel it.”

“You swear you can feel my g-spot, too, but I can’t feel a damn thing down there.”

Lexa laughs, pulling away and turning Clarke around so that their eyes meet; she has a wicked grin on her face. “It’s right there, that spongy spot where I curl my finger up at. You can’t say you never feel it.”

“If I ask you to show me where it’s at, will you?” Clarke asks, smirking a bit.

Lexa’s eyes widen a bit and her eyebrows raise just a tad. “Say no more,” she says, “Just lead the way to the bedroom.”

Clarke can hardly even recall what she was worrying about an hour later.

* * *

Surprisingly, it’s Raven who Clarke tells first.

She’s only seven weeks in, and their baby’s not even half an inch at this point. But she needs to tell someone, or else she might go insane.

Raven doesn’t seem so surprised. “So you’re knocked up. Congrats. Are you gonna name them after me?”

Clarke rolls her eyes, smiling to herself as she puts Raven on speaker. “Raven Woods sounds like something out of a bad dystopian show meant for teens.”

“One of those shitty ones where they kill off a major character for shock value.”

“Exactly.”

“Still, though. You have to come up with names.”

“I’m barely seven weeks along,” Clarke says.

“It’s never too early. I still say you should name them after me. If you don’t, Lexa will name them after her favorite Bath and Body Works candle.”

“Winter Candy Apple Woods,” Lexa says as she walks into the living room, sprawling out on their couch. “That’s not that bad of a name, actually.”

“If you put that on the birth certificate,” Clarke hisses, “I will kill you.”

Lexa just grins crookedly as Raven cackles over the phone. “Winter Woods. That’s more vampire romance than dystopian.”

“Our child will not be named Winter. Or Raven, for that matter.”

‘Our child’. It still sounds weird to say out loud. Clarke wonders if she’ll ever quite get used to it, at least before the end of the pregnancy.

“Fine,” Raven says, “Just don’t name them after a celebrity’s kid. I won’t be babysitting ‘em if they’re named Apple or River.”

“Duly noted.”

* * *

Clarke vomits for the first time exactly two weeks after she took the tests.

She expected it to be sooner, honestly. At least a week before. But when she’s running to the bathroom and hurling up her breakfast, she’s happy it took so long to happen.

Lexa doesn’t say anything for a few moments, not until she’s sure Clarke has completely depleted the contents of her stomach. “Well,” she says finally, “Morning sickness.”

“No shit, Sherlock,” Clarke groans.

Lexa just laughs. “No need to be rude, Watson.”

The glare Clarke gives her is so ice cold that Lexa’s surprised she isn’t immediately turned into an ice sculpture.

* * *

It absolutely sucks, being at work and being pregnant.

Clarke still hasn’t told any of her coworkers. Besides, who is there to tell – Niylah? Niylah seems more interested in talking about her relationship with Lexa than anything else.

She’s supposed to be working on a relatively minor project for some advertising company she can’t remember the name of, but all she can focus on is how she feels nauseous and shitty and how she could really,  _ really _ go for a burger right now and how she should probably be scheduling an appointment with her OB, since she’s seven weeks along and hell, that’s just about halfway into the first trimester, isn’t it?

“You alright there, Clarke?”

Of course, it’s Niylah, popping in for a brief minute. She’s giving Clarke a funny look, like she’s afraid she’ll vomit all over the cubicle at any given moment.

“…Yeah, just really anxious for lunch, you know?”

“Lunch was an hour ago.”

_ Fuck. _

“I meant dinner. Lexa’s cooking burgers.” She’ll have to text Lexa to actually make her a damn burger. Or maybe four.

“O-kay,” Niylah says. “Give me a holler if you need anything.” That’s Niylah for you – always offering to get Clarke drinks, something from the vending machine, anything. If Clarke didn’t know better, she’d say the girl has a serious crush on her.

Clarke raises her eyebrows. “’Give me a holler’?”

“My mom used to say it,” she says, as if that’s a decent enough explanation (and it is, Clarke supposes). Before Clarke can reply, Niylah leaves.

Before she decides to get back to work and actually make some sort of progress, Clarke texts Lexa.  _ Can we have burgers when I get home? _

_ How many? _

_ At least two. With cheese. And lettuce. And tomatoes. And everything else. _

She hopes this is the most benign of her cravings. If these are even cravings, really – she’s not quite sure when that’s supposed to begin.

Doesn’t matter. She really wants those damn burgers.

* * *

The baby has a heartbeat. The OB heard it.

Clarke is eight weeks along, and the baby has a heartbeat, and the risk of a miscarriage drops dramatically, and she feels as if she’s on top of the world.

She’s laying on the right side of the bed, with Lexa beside her, the latter propped up on one elbow. There’s a stack of baby books on each of their nightstands – a book of names,  _ What to Expect When You’re Expecting _ , some diary Lexa bought that Clarke is supposed to write in (“We can give it to them when they’re older!” she had said excitedly, and her reaction was so cute that Clarke just had to buy it).

“There’s actually a baby in there.” Lexa says, her voice quiet, barely above a whisper.

Clarke thumbs through the diary. “Yes, we’ve established that.”

“But…there’s a heartbeat. They’re actually real. This is actually happening.”

“Once again, this has been established, Lex.”

Lexa reaches out, uses the hand that isn’t propping her up to brush against Clarke’s stomach. “I hope it’s a girl.”

“I’ll love them the same, either way,” Clarke says, smiling slightly. Images flash through her mind – a toddler with blonde hair and sparkling green eyes, Clarke teaching her how to fingerpaint; a little boy with dark hair and blue eyes, grabbing one of Lexa’s candles and hiding it somewhere; whatever the outcome, she really won’t mind.

“I know you will. So will I.” She briefly kisses Clarke, letting her hand cusp her face lightly before pulling it away. “But still. If you had to choose.”

Clarke smiles. “I just can’t choose.”

“What do you think of the most, then? When you imagine us being parents?”

“…A girl, I guess.”

Lexa raises an eyebrow, smiling crookedly. “There. You prefer a girl. It’s probably some subconscious shit telling you that you want a girl.”

“Subconscious shit? Really?”

“Mhm. Your subconscious wants a girl, so you’re imagining they’re a girl.” Lexa’s tone sounds totally serious, but the grin on her face says otherwise.

Clarke laughs, swatting her wife’s arm. “Oh, hush.”

Lexa grins even wider before leaning in for another kiss. And this time, they don’t stop for a good, long while.


End file.
